On a Photocopy of the Ace of Pentacles
The Hand of God is bowling
with a Godhandful of coin:
one coin, in a currency
that doesn’t seem
current.
The coin is gold. The sky is blue.
What color is the Hand
of God? I’ve forgotten,
so I can’t fill it in
Down below is this random shrubbery,
a tangle of green, the most enticing image,
upheld by one half-hearted arch.
Beyond the arch are two mountains.
They look like the ones in Boulder:
sharp-edged, Protestant,
not to be trifled with.
If this great colorless hand
emerging from this colorless
cumulonimbus sleeve
dropped that big cent in an Eastern valley,
it would have nowhere to roll.
Out west
it would take out the shrubs and
the arch and maybe even
that colorless mountain.
I guess this particular God,
with his perfectly manicured nails,
is a flying Ace.
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